


Hobbies & Rules

by epkitty



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Bathroom Sex, Character Study, Fights, M/M, Multiple Partners, Promiscuity, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-20
Updated: 2011-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-17 04:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epkitty/pseuds/epkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hobbies, rules, and sins of the Turks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hobbies & Rules

Reno wonders what it would be like to fuck Rude. Reno would take off all those carefully layered clothes ‘til there wasn’t a stitch left… but he’d leave the glasses on.

Reno wonders, but he knows better than to mix business with pleasure, so as soon as he’s off the beat, he leaves his partner and hops a train down to the slums. He walks a street that will take him to a joint where muscled men with big tattoos enjoy fucking twinks like Reno.

Reno can’t say this is the first time he’s been here, and the men can’t say they’re sorry to see him. He shoots some pool and buys a round, ‘cause Reno knows the rules. Reno always knows the rules; following them is where he has issues.

People like Tseng must think Reno doesn’t give a shit about rules, but it’s not true. Rules are what make society function. But walking the line between what’s right and what Reno wants is an age-old and well-loved hobby.

And Reno really doesn’t want to be alone right now – not by himself and not with just one other person, which is nearly as bad – so he picks two guys and they head to the bathroom and slide the cheap-ass bolt behind them.

Reno brings lube, but rubbers have gone out of fashion along with spandex running shorts and pricey flavored-coffee drinks. He’s not worried about disease; there’s pills for that now. Now, there’s pills for everything; besides, he wants to feel the slimy burn all the way up until he’s gone.

Reno doesn’t much care for sucking cock, but it’s expected.

Even here, doing this, there’s rules.

It gives Reno a chance to appreciate their length and girth, get his mind ready, reach down between his own legs to get his body ready. He’s already hard for it and so are they, so he drags his pants and underwear down over his shoes and flings them to drape over the only remaining stall door. The black dude lifts him to sit on the sink. Reno braces himself on the counter and lifts his legs out of the way, his butt hanging into the air as the guy packs his asshole with lube. When he pulls Reno’s knees to hook over his elbows, the blunt head of his cock batters blindly forward.

“A little help?” the dude grunts.

The other guy, bigger even than Rude with giant muscled arms bulging out of his leather vest, sticks his hand between them to center the black dude’s cock. Once he’s all lined up, he pushes and pushes until the head finally pops in. He sighs in relief and pleasure as Reno bangs his head back in joy, smacking the mirror. “Fuck yeah!” and he’s already gone with it. No mind, all body. There’s just his ass and his cock and miles of skin that tingles all over like wriggling needles. After he shouts, it’s all crooning.

The men who fuck him are predictable, they pump like pistons and grunt like pigs, but hearing Reno get fucked is like listening to some ancient tribal call. He sings the whole way, high-pitched and keening. He doesn’t hear himself, not really. If he did, he’d probably stop, but he’s past thinking. It’s words and nonsense and long strings of vowels that fall from his lips like diamonds in the old fairytale.

He can’t do anything but hold on and feel, which is exactly what he came here for.

The guy with the leather vest leans a hip on the sink and reaches between them to pinch Reno’s nipples and twist his cock. Things get messy with sweat and lube, and Reno’s head keeps hitting the mirror, but nothing can match the perfection of getting one’s brains fucked out.

Black Dude’s breath is coming fast and heavy as his thrusts grow quick and uneven. Leather Vest steps back, slowly pumping his cock with a handful of lube, getting ready for sloppy seconds.

Black Dude slams home a couple more times, his balls pulled up tight to his body as the orgasm takes over.

Reno doesn’t come. The angle’s wrong, but that’s fine because they’re not done yet. Leather Vest takes Black Dude’s place, fits his bulk between Reno’s shaking legs and pets his heaving flanks like consoling a high-strung horse. “You ready?” he grumbles.

Reno shudders and dips one hand beyond the black vest to touch tanned, tattooed skin drawn tight over muscle. He smiles a smile that becomes a smirk and Leather Vest glides home.

Reno angles his hips until Leather Vest is punching his prostate with every jab. Reno doesn’t think. He feels. He writhes and reaches up to grab a corner of the mirror, keeping himself in place, the other hand a death grip on the sink’s edge. He lets go little angelic sighs and cat meows until he’s stuttering with ululating need. He wraps his arms around Leather Vest and when Reno comes it’s like a waterfall rushing through him, uncontrolled and powerful, blocking out everything except the roar of it.

His head snaps back and cracks the mirror as his fingers dig into muscled shoulders. Tears stream down his face because that’s the way it is with Reno, and Leather Vest keeps banging him until he comes.

The men aren’t much for cleaning up, tucking themselves away, congratulating themselves on their good luck and letting the door slam shut behind them.

Reno makes it over to a toilet to sit and let it all drain out. He awkwardly pulls his pants and underwear back on over his boots. The knees of his trousers have bar bathroom filth scrawled over them in ugly patterns and Reno wipes his tears away with a wad of toilet paper.

He wonders if he’d cry when Rude fucked him, too.

= = = = =

Rude has heard people compare fighting to dancing. When Rude was a boy, he was made to take dance lessons from a strict old crone of a dance master who had a habit of thwacking Rude with her bamboo cane at every misstep.

Rude knows that fighting is nothing like dancing.

A dance is a show of societal standing made up of a predetermined circle around a ballroom like every other ballroom, with tall pillars, and chandeliers that dangle like a princess’s earrings. A fight is a fierce battle and the only things at stake are life and death.

Unlike dancing, there are no rules to fighting. Oh, street thugs like the three stalking down the alley toward Rude think there are rules, like three to one is easy odds or a lead pipe and wooden bat beat bare fists every time, but when you’ve danced as much as the son of a debutante and fought as much as a soldier, you know better. You know that fighting is nothing like dancing, and there are only two rules to the former: experience and luck.

The punks think rule number one is to spread out, make it harder for their prey to run away, harder for the enemy to keep track.

But Rude just puts his back to the flat grey wall behind him and even his glasses don’t interfere with his peripheral vision.

The alpha stands back, lets his lackeys go first, one at a time. Always an amateur’s mistake; Rude doesn’t know why they do it. There are no rules about fighting fair.

And when the first one rushes him, it isn’t like dancing at all. Block to the left or two steps to the right, it doesn’t matter how it’s done as long as you win.

Rude gets under his guard and lands a punch that drops the thug like a sack of potatoes. Rude catches the punk’s stomach on his knee on the way down and he’s out for the count.

The two that are left look worried, but now they’re pissed off, and now it’s time to play.

Rude’s fists launch into bodies with a sound like smacking wet meat. Grunts and groans fill the alley but Rude is silent even as his powerful legs reach out to catch calves and stomachs at the end of steel-toed boots.

The thugs growl with fury and yell for help.

Rude lets slip a grin. His veins sing with joy.

More punks come running, shocked to staring before rushing in with what they think are battle cries. There’s no such thing as a practiced battle cry; it can only come from guts and fear, two things Rude has in abundance. He scares the shit out of them and they slow down as they approach, and Rude grabs the nearest one by the arm, swinging him around with such force that the snapping of bone is loud in the scuffling alley. The neck snaps too, like celery. Rude grins.

Quick thinking should send the street rats running; the base human fear of death should freeze their skin. But there’s a whole crowd of them now, and only one of Rude. That must mean something. Right?

Rude takes them out and it’s not easy, because death should never be easy. And some of them he knows, has seen their faces flash across Shinra monitors, faces of rapists and murderers, and he has seen their faces pasted on bills along the slum dumps, faces of thieves and arsonists. And others he has never seen before, and he knows that they are just the same, the monsters of the underworld, rats feeding off the innocent. And he knows the rest are innocent themselves. This would be the first time they let someone lead them down a dark alley with the promise of victory ringing in their ears. It would also be the last.

Because even if they are innocent now, the slums determine that they won’t be for long.

And so Rude kills them.

He snaps their necks and feels the strange, immediate chill of death set in. He drives his palm into their noses, sending fragments of bone into the fragile grey cells of brain matter. He bodily lifts them into the air, smashes them on his upraised knee, feels the spine splinter.

No, fighting is nothing like dancing.

The alley rings with his heavy breaths and nothing more, because each and every man is dead.

Rude huffs and leans down, resting his hands just above his knees.

The ragged cuffs of his jeans are wet with alley filth. Blood spatters his old brown coat. His knuckles are bruised and bleeding. And he’s taken a good knock or two.

He straightens, shoots the cuffs of his old brown coat, and heads down the ever-dark alley.

But Rude isn’t heading for a medic. This wasn’t work. This is just a hobby.

= = = = =

The End


End file.
